“Two a week of late.”
“That captain did not seem so happy about Sir Henry’s inspection, did he? His face was red like a beet and as ugly as a boar.” Allan screwed up his face to imitate Burford, hoping Sarah might open up.
Fear filled Sarah’s grey-green eyes. “I must go.” She grabbed the flour from his arms and ran to the kitchen door.
“Sarah?” What did I say? Allan went over each word of their conversation. He’d insulted the captain. Why would that bother her?
He hurried after Sarah. Inside, Mary greeted him with a sour face and hands on her hips. The sack of flour had spilled on the trestle. The room was stifling from the heat of the oven and the fire glowing beneath the kettles on the hearth. Mary cocked her head towards the buttery.
Allan headed into the passageway. It was lined with shelves of grain and other goods and held barrels of wine and ale. There was an empty spot for the Brewers’ next delivery. Sarah crouched there, knees cradled to her chest.
Allan knelt in front of her. “I am sorry.” Sarah answered with a sniffle. He laid his hand atop her knee. “What did I say?”
“My brother…”
“Is he in Nottingham?”
“Jacob works for the constable. He has a good job at the castle. Captain Burford brings me messages from him. He promised to take me to see Jacob soon.”
Allan pressed away a tear that slid down Sarah’s cheeks. He encouraged her to stand, letting her wrap herself around him. “He said that, did he?” When she nodded, he asked, “And what does the captain ask of you?”
Sarah began to sob. Allan held her tightly, whispering words to soothe her until she finally calmed. “I—I must do as he asks.”
Allan wished the heat rising on his neck was from the ache for a beautiful young woman, but he knew better. It was just as Sir Stephan feared. Sarah was giving the captain information…and herself. He felt cornered in the buttery and needed some fresh air. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“But my chores—”
“Mary will understand.” He took her hand and led her outside. There would be too many prying eyes along the road, so he followed the wooded trail towards Ringsthorpe. They’d walked a good mile past fragrant holly and juniper without a word between them. Sarah gripped his hand, laid her head against his arm as he turned down a lesser-used path.
“You must tell me. Did the captain hurt you?”
“Only the first time.” She suppressed a sob.
Allan jerked to an abrupt halt, clenching his fist. “God’s blood—did he rape you? And you’re forced to share his bed?”
Fresh tears wet her face. “He will turn Jacob over to the constables if I do not help him. He says Jacob is a spy for the king.”
Allan wondered if Sarah’s brother was a contact he and Robin would meet in Nottingham. But why would Jacob remain there if Burford knew he was a king’s man? He could have fled to safety. Allan swallowed hard, cursed to himself. No, he would not. Burford would have threatened Jacob that he’d harm Sarah. Bastard.
Allan grasped Sarah’s wrist. She winced and he loosed his hold. “You must promise you will not tell Burford that Robin and I are bound for Nottingham. You would not want to put us, or Jacob, in danger. We will sort this out, help you and your brother.” If we can, he thought.
“I will not say a word.”
“Now, what have you told Burford?”
“I tell him who visits the master. What they speak of.” Sarah tried to wrench free, but Allan held her tight. She fell to her knees before him. “Please do not tell his lordship. I do not want to hang.”
Allan crouched down to face her. All he wanted was to pull her close and protect her. “It’s all right. You must not worry.”
Sarah closed the space between them. She kissed him, a wild and urgent kiss that nearly took his breath away. Before he knew it, she was lifting his tunic over his head. Her hand slid into his braises. Blood surged to his groin and he was swept into her passion.
He wanted her. Mayhap it was wrong, but he wanted her. “Sarah…” Allan moaned as Sarah pushed him onto his back and straddled him. “Don’t—”
She stopped his words with another kiss, and then looked down at him. “I want you to love me.”
“You do not have to do this.” His groin gave a different answer.
“You like me, don’t you? You want me?”
Allan looked at her face, her plump lips moist and luring him in for a taste. Pulling her close, he claimed her mouth. He moaned and then pushed her away. “I do care for you. But I cannot…not like this.”
Sarah rolled off Allan and buried her face against her knees.
He sat up, wishing for one moment there was no Burford in her life. She’d need be careful.
“You must not let the captain think anything has changed. Do you understand?” Allan stroked her back, and then lifted her chin. He dried the new tears on her cheeks. “What have you said to him of Sir Henry?”
Sarah sniffled. “That he and Master Edward argued over the king. I heard Sir Stephan mention the weapons in the wagons. That they’d be in Boston to see the wool shop there. Nothing more.”
Sparse details, but Count John’s friends might be concerned that king’s men now had specific proof of the provisions being sent to Nottingham. Sir Henry’s loyalties could be used against Lord de Grey, his business…his family…his home. How would this end?
Allan touched the dimple on Sarah’s chin. He hated the thought of what might happen at Greyton. How could he keep her safe when he’d not be at her side? He leaned close and brushed her lips with a kiss.
Twigs snapped and hurried footfalls sounded on the trail nearby. Allan recognized the frantic voice calling his name and sat back with a sigh.
“Allan!” Robin shouted.
“Over here.” Allan jumped up and brushed the leaves from his clothes.
Robin threaded his way through the bushes. There was fear in his eyes. “I need your help. Robert has gone missing.”
*
After a fruitless hour searching for Robert, Robin hurried into Greyton’s hall. He eyed the upstairs bedchambers. “Marian?” he called. Noise from the kitchen made him turn and he started towards it stopping when the lingering smells of the midday meal struck his nostrils. His stomach rolled. He was sick with worry. He heard a door open upstairs and Marian appeared on the landing. “Have you seen Robert?”
“He was with you.” She turned and spoke to someone in the bedchamber, and then closed the door. “What has happened?” she asked, coming down the stairs.
“He ran off. Allan and I have been looking for him.”
Her eyes shone with fear. “What did you do? Where is my son?”
“I am sorry, Marian. I did not mean for the words to come out, but the outlaws—”
“What are you talking about?” Her breaths were short. Robin knew her heart must be pounding like his. “Outlaws? What words?”
“We’d gone to shoot bow. There were two men. You know Milo from Ringsthorpe.”
“I do not care about Milo.” Marian grabbed a broom left at the bottom of the stairs. She barreled towards Robin, shoving the bristles into his face. Dust and dirt sprayed the air. “Where in the name of God is my son?”
“He must be nearby,” Robin said. “He knows, Marian. About us. It just came out. Ysac threatened him with a blade.”
Marian paled. The broom slipped from her hands. Afraid she might faint, Robin pulled her into his arms. He stroked her hair, felt her heaving breaths on his neck. “I could not let the man hurt my son…our son. I was mad with fear. The words just came from my heart. I did not want Robert to hear it that way. But Ysac was going to hurt him. I killed him. In front of Robert.
“He is hurt, confused. He cannot have gone far.”
Marian wrenched herself from his arms. “What do you mean, your son? You left us here all these years. Robin Carpenter, you bloody bastard.” Turning a damning glare on him, she slapped him hard.
Robin swa
yed from the blow. He deserved it and every word she spoke. She wanted her son back, and that was the only thing that mattered.
He lowered his eyes before meeting the hurt in hers. “Will you help me look for him? Is there a place he goes when he wants to be alone?”
Marian glanced upstairs. “Tell Lady Bea I’ve gone to find my son. I’ll check the cottage. You check the stables. When he is unhappy, he often goes there.”
Robin wanted to reach for Marian, to tell her he’d find Robert, but a stern look from her signaled an end to the discussion and she turned on her heels and flew out the door. Robin hurried upstairs to speak with Bea, promising her he’d make everything right with Marian, with their son.
He’d checked the stables earlier, but he searched them again to no avail. The barns, chapel, the mill. He knocked on every door in the village. No Robert. Another hour passed. He spurred his horse up the road to Ringsthorpe and enlisted everyone taller than a barrel of ale to help with the search.
“Take torches, search the woods,” Robin said, handing Ailric a pole blazing at one end. Wrapped in cloth, the stave had been soaked in tallow and lit. “Head up the north path, my friend.”
“We can help.” Thomas and David stood by Linota as William hurried from his shop with two more tallow-soaked poles.
Robin squeezed David’s shoulder. “Boys, visit every cottage and ask if anyone has seen Marian’s son.”
“We’ll go to the west,” William said, dipping his torches into the fire and placing one in Linota’s hands.
“He’s strong, like Marian.” Linota clasped Robin's arm. “He’ll be fine,” she said as if she knew the boy was more than the son of a friend.
As the sun faded over the horizon, Robin found himself wandering down the path where he and Marian had shared such carefree days. He called out, prayed for an answer. But none came. He heard the villagers’ voices fading as he moved further south. Every rustle in the bushes made him turn, hopeful to see his son.
“Where are you?” He called to the shadows darkening the woods. “I must talk to you. Let me explain. I never wanted to hurt you. Robert! Come back. Come home.”
Nothing. Not a sound. Even the trees had gone still.
The moon and stars laid claim to the sky, the light not a blessing but rather a curse. It illuminated empty spaces. After a while, the wind picked up and ushered in dark, rumbling clouds. With the villagers long gone to bed, Robin searched each place one more time. When the rain came, his voice rang out louder and stronger. Soaked from the downpour, he finally led his horse to the stables. He checked the stalls, the loft, and then closed the door against the storm. Outside, he stared at the candle flickering in Marian’s window. He fell back against the wall, letting the rain mingle with his tears.
The morning sky was charcoal grey and threatened more rain. Mud clutched at Henry’s boots as he crossed to the stables where Bea, Stephan, and Little John were mounted and waiting for him. Henry had spoken to Robin—Robert was still missing. Robin’s face had been dark like the sky. Henry offered to delay his visit to Alys’ family at Westorby. Boston could wait, too. There’d be more men to help Robin search. But Robin was certain he and Allan would find the boy and insisted Henry go on his way.
Henry rode out at lead. In Grantham, he slowed the pace to greet people on the streets who recognized him. Bea seemed lost in thought. He wasn’t surprised. His own head spun with Greek fire and stone throwers and plots to overthrow King Richard.
“Poor Marian,” Bea said when they were out on the open road. “She must wonder why Robin did not ask for your help. Is your spying in Boston so—”
“What?” Henry looked at her sharply.
“Do not tell me you aren’t on some mission for Queen Eleanor.” Bea threw her head towards Stephan who rode a few paces ahead with Little John. “Meeting Odo? Seeing the workshop? Those are just excuses.”
“Father expects me—”
“How convenient to see the boat at the quay that carries our wool across the sea. Do not look the innocent, Henry.” She pursed her lips.
“I will do my duty.” Even if it means turning Father over to the king’s justice? Henry realized Soleil’s reins were wrapped around his hands, tight like a noose, and he quickly loosed them. “Father believes he has no choice but to do John’s bidding, but there are always choices.” He broke out in a sweat, struggled to draw a breath. “I left for Outremer knowing we had every right to march to Jerusalem. Even when innocent blood was spilled, I chose to stay. To fight. It was the right thing to do.” Staring across the pastureland around them, he wished the future was as clear as the village he saw in the distance. “I will do what I must.”
Silence stretched between them. But after a while, the sound of the horses’ hoofs plodding along the road was calming and eased the strain.
“The things you saw in the Holy Land,” Bea said. “Tell me.”
Encouraged by a gentle smile from Stephan, Henry found the words to share. Bea was intrigued by the description of Acre’s city walls, by the desolate landscapes of the march. Her eyes grew large when he described the Saracen army covering distant hills like a blanket. The heat, the bitter cold, the prisoners he and Stephan captured near Blanchegarde. Seeing the lights of Jerusalem at the king’s side.
He told her of Arsuf. “We nearly died there.” His voice broke.
Bea leaned close enough to lay her hand on his. “Your nightmares?” she asked softly.
Henry stole a deep breath from the damp morning air and nodded. His hands trembled, tight on Soleil’s reins. He spoke of the massacre at Acre. Of men bound in chains, executed. The drums… The screams of battle. The blood…so much blood.
He swiped an arm across his eyes unable to say more and urged Soleil to a canter past villages, most set far off the road so he had no need to speak with anyone. Escaping into quiet solitude, he blocked all sound save the wind brushing his face until he turned off the Salter’s Way. The others fell in beside him for the final mile to Westorby.
It was not long before the first of a cluster of cottages came into view.
“Dear God,” Bea whispered when they slowed. Sunlight broke through the clouds laying a harsh light on the scene. “What has happened here?”
One cottage smoldered, a heap of blackened timber. Thatched roofs on a dozen others were in need of repair. Henry remembered the ordered, prosperous village he had known, a stark contrast to this disheveled, neglected one where the yards were overgrown with weeds.
Henry breathed in. There was no smell of sulfur burning. The forge was quiet. He gazed through the smith’s open door. Not just quiet. Deserted. Had Westorby lost its blacksmith to the illness that had taken so many others? And where were the other villeins?
“Thomas Weston would never let this happen,” he said as the riders scattered squawking chickens in their path.
“Mayhap young Lord Weston squanders more coin than he should on his own comforts.” Stephan indicated the manor house looking like a jewel surrounded by lush green fields.
The sounds of song drifted from the far side of the church. As Henry drew close, a small child looked up at him and stopped singing. She’d been pulling weeds growing around the crosses and stone markers in the churchyard. Far too many new ones jutted from the ground. Alys would be there amongst them, Henry thought and dismounted. He handed the reins to Little John.
“Take what time you need with Alys,” Bea said.
Stephan cast Henry a glance, and then turned away to give him privacy. Henry wished Stephan could be at his side, but he knew better than to say anything.
Henry found Alys buried next to her parents beneath the largest markers in the yard. He lowered his head and whispered a prayer. In the peace of the graveyard, he silently told Alys he could not ask for her understanding or for her forgiveness. I love him, Alys. Give me the strength I will need when it is time to say good-bye.
A strong breeze whipped Henry’s hair and a putrid smell wafted on the air. Covering his nose, h
e noticed Bea nudging her horse to the corner of the church where the road curved. Suddenly, the animal skittered. Bea held the reins tight, but gasped in horror. Henry raced to her side, gripped the horse’s bridle, and then followed her stare.
Just past the church, a corpse dangled from a gallows. Stripped down to his braies, the man had bruises head to foot and the dried blood on his body had blackened. A crow pecking at the body took flight, but it circled overhead. Henry crossed himself.
Stephan put his horse between Bea and the crow food. “Wait here,” he told her, “Little John and I will see to the dead man.”
Villagers had finally appeared, but regarded them warily from a distance. No one made a move to help, but the little girl who’d been pulling weeds came round the side of the church. Mayhap nine summers, mouth pursed tight, she settled beside Henry and watched Stephan cut down the body. Dirt flew into the air as it slapped the ground.
“He will not be happy,” the girl said. Her clothes were tattered and filthy, her arms thin like a sapling. “Master Edric. He’ll be most displeased.”
Stephan wiped sweat from his brow. “The man is dead. Is there no one who wants to bury him?”
Henry glanced down the road. “He must be someone’s son or husband.”
“All dead, my lord. The master torched his cottage—” she pointed to the smoldering ruin. “He’ll not let us bury him until the crows have had their fill.”
Little John cast his eyes at the ground as if this was not the first time he’d witnessed such horror. Pale, he brought his hand over his nose to curb the stench. “We shall need a spade.”
“I’ll bring one from the barn,” the girl said and scrambled across the road. A moment later she came running with two men at her heels. Both stopped short, fear filling their eyes at the sight of the body on the ground. They gaped at the knights, and then tried to back away.
Henry slid his sword from his scabbard. “Hold there.”
The younger man yelped and fell backwards. He scooted away on his hands and buttocks, kicking up a cloud of dust, righted himself, and ran. The older villein stood frozen as if he’d seen the Devil.
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 13